I am Edward Cullen and I have a deadly secret: I am a hit man. My new target: Isabella Newton. With the help of my friends, we plan the crime of the century. What the hell am I going to do when she becomes more than my target and becomes my life...?

I was innocent once. I would like to think that at one point in my life I was normal. But if that were the case how could I enjoy the rush I got from ending life?

"Normal" was just never in the cards for me. I can see things before they happen, but I could have never predicted how drastically my life would change that fateful night in June nine years ago.

June 20th, 2000

"Jake!" I yelled as one of my best friends tried to splash me with the frigid ocean water. We were celebrating the beginning of summer, the end of innocence.

"It's just a little water Ally," Jake teased me. I fucking hated when people called me Ally. Who the hell names their kid Mary Alice? I dropped that Mary shit like a bad habit. It just didn't fit me, at all. Jake's arm found my shoulder and we walked in silence for a while, just enjoying the nice summer night.

"I told you it wouldn't rain tonight, didn't I?" I reminded Jake when he said we shouldn't be going, that it was gonna fucking "rain on our parade" if we went to the La Push beach. Jake accepted me. Edward and Emmett, my other best friends, they also accepted me. They loved my gift; they never made me feel like a freak or an outsider. I was one of them.

It was so calm, too calm. I should have known a storm was brewing.

I really can't even tell you how it all started; it was like a huge cluster fuck. Jake's father, Billy came out of nowhere. Slurring his words, waving a gun, telling Jake what a no-good-loser he was. Ranting about how pissed he was that Jake hung-out with the "Pale Faces," and not just any pale faces, but a skanky-mind-reading-devil-worshipper. Why couldn't people just accept my gift without bringing the devil into it? Without fucking making fun of me over it? Like I could control that it and turn it off. I acted like the comments muttered under people's breaths, or the innuendos didn't bother me. Like I could give two shits, but in truth, I did.

I shook with fear as the gun pointed in my direction. Jake immediately stood in front of me, pushing me behind him. Out of nowhere, Billy charged at Jake. Jake grabbed his father's hand that held the gun. I screamed out in fear, I couldn't make out whose hand was whose. When the gun fired, I dropped to my knees, sank inches into the sand, and yelled in sheer terror. "JAKE!" My eyes darted between the two, unaware of who had been shot.

Relief flooded through me when Billy fell and Jake emerged holding the gun pointed at his father, who was screaming in pain. Billy clutched to his leg, blood pouring through his fingers over his kneecap. I looked up at Jake, who didn't look scared, he looked proud. Mother-fucking proud! He stared at his father and fucking smiled before he pulled the trigger again, hitting his other knee cap. This time, the gunfire didn't startle me, it ignited me.

Billy cried out again, and I was flooded with all the memories of being called a freak from everyone in town. Residual pain from being mocked for years boiled up inside me. I wanted to fucking kill them all.

"AGAIN!! Shoot him again!" I yelled as the third gunshot rang out over the deserted beach. Jake looked back at me with a wide grin on his face. I grinned back at him and listened to a fourth gunshot. I watched the blood spray across the white sand, chunks of flesh flying. I jumped with fucking joy while I clapped my hands like a five year old.

Jake dropped the gun to his side. "What a fucking rush!" Jake said with enthusiasm.

"I know, right? That was fucking crazy! Did you see his brain fucking explode with that last shot?!" It was like we were high, but it was better than coke, or meth, or even fucking ecstasy. I just saw Billy Black bite the bullet; kick the bucket; push up fucking daisies.

"What the hell are we going to do with the body, Pixie?" Jake asked me, like I could see the fucking future. Wait, I could! I could tell he was starting to get worried about the consequences of this.

"We have to call Edward and Emmett, they will help us. Don't worry … we just got away with murder." I told him, being one hundred percent certain, that if we did everything perfect, like my vision, no one would ever know the truth. Except us—the freaks.

We needed Emmett for his strength, and Edward for his photographic memory and abundant knowledge of death. I knew he was meant to be adopted by Carlisle Cullen, proprietor of Cullen Funeral Home. I already knew Edward would breeze through medical school. Knew he would complete it in half the time of the above average person. He was beyond smart, he was a genius. Edward already knew more about the human body than his adoptive father—who was also fucking smart as hell.

I paced the beach in excitement as we awaited Emmett and Edward. "Holy shit!!" Emmett exclaimed upon the sight of the bloody body of Billy Black. I thought Edward prepared him…. A wicked, deviant smile spread across his face. Yup, even the all-fucking-American quarter back was a fucked-up freak like the rest of us.

Edward was silent. Awe struck. I watched him pick up a chunk that landed several feet away from Billy Black. "Brain matter," I heard him mumble to himself in fascination. "What I wouldn't give to cut him open and explore," he said. Really, I thought there was no need, there were plenty of parts to Billy Black that were already wide-open. I almost felt sorry for Edward, though, as I watched him. He lived in a house full of toys he wasn't able to touch. The human body fascinated him, yet Carlisle never let him play. Really, Carlisle was a respectful man; he wouldn't even entertain the idea of his son experimenting with the corpses. If Edward was lucky, he was allowed to observe, which only furthered his frustration. I could see him through my visions sometimes; watching, aching to be involved, dying to cut, remove organs, and examine the diseased liver of an alcoholic or black lungs of a smoker.

"Let's get this mess cleaned up … the tide from the ocean will wash away all the bloody sand, but we gotta find a place for this body, and a damn good story to tell people," Edward said as he grabbed a black body bag from the back of his pickup truck. "I don't want any fucking blood in my truck," Edward told us, making sure his green eyes made eye contact with each and every one of us. Edward was meticulous. So much so that he would prefer not a hair was out of place on his head, but that just wasn't the case. His hair always looked like he just rolled out of bed. Fuck, for all I knew, he worked for that messy look.

I watched Edward grasp the legs of Billy Black, and Emmett grasp his arms, they swiftly moved the body into the bag and zipped it up. It wasn't until then that I noticed the splatters of blood that covered Jake's body, his white wife beater soiled, his brow smeared with blood and sweat. I knew he'd be cleaning it off in the ocean before Edward let him inside his vehicle.

We drove to the edge of the forest. Emmett and Edward unloaded the body roughly, letting it hit the ground with a thud before they picked it back up. I led them deep into the Olympia forest, carrying two shovels, to an abandoned stone shack I had seen several days ago in one of my visions. I just didn't know why, until tonight.

Edward dropped his end of the corpse immediately and took the shovels from me. He tossed one to Jake and one to Emmett. "Start diggin' boys. We need a grave."

I sat on a chunk of the stone house that had fallen out, exhausted. My adrenaline rush was gone and I was left feeling sluggish, tired, and just worn-the-fuck-out.

"You okay?" Edward asked, sitting next to me. I looked up at him and smiled weakly.

"Edward … I don't know … I think something might be … wrong with me after all," I confided in him. "I liked it—watching him die. It was like retribution for all the times everyone called me a freak, or a devil-worshipper. I felt this rush, high even … Maybe I am a freak after all."

"Don't say shit like that, you are not a freak. They did this to you! To us! Jake didn't have a choice; no one should ever make someone else feel like a freak, you are not a freak, Mary Alice Brandon. That drunk, racist, piece-of-shit deserves to be six feet under."

I watched Jake bury his father. I watched him care less. I think the only stress any of us felt over it was getting caught, but I didn't see that happening. My boys always believed in my visions—ever since I saved Emmett from dying in a fatal car crash.

Jake had told everyone that Billy left, abandoned him. Vanished without a trace. It was believable; Billy Black was a notorious bitter drunk, after the death of his wife to natural causes.

The police put out a missing persons report, had an investigation—days turned into weeks, months, and it was clear we had succeeded. We got away with murder. The case went cold, unsolved. I was sure now it was probably in a box somewhere, stored, and dust-covered with time.

Once the case was filed away, it was like we started to withdraw from the kill. From the unknown of whether or not we would be caught (which I knew better), from the surge of adrenaline that took over when we held the power over someone's life … whatever it was, we all wanted the feeling back. We knew what we had to do—what we would do. We would kill again.

"Alice Brandon is such a freak," I heard Jessica Stanley say as Edward and I walked past her in the hallway at school one day. Edward looked back at her, a wicked smile spread across his face.

One week later, Jessica Stanley thought she was the shit, dating Edward Cullen. Little did she know, Edward had begun his first hunt.

We planned it, we made jokes about it. At the end—the result was fucking beautiful.

Edward took Jessica out to lookout point, fucked her hard, and killed her. He told her he had to "take a piss," exited the car, and scared her shitless making scratching noises on the top of the car. She drove right off the fucking cliff trying to get away. That was how the urban legends became one of our favorite games. Edward, the stellar actor he was, called the police in a frenzy.

They ruled the death a suicide. He had told police she was very upset that he broke-up with her, he stepped out of the car to take a few deep breathes over the upsetting situation, and she drove right off the cliff.

We all saw it happen, from a distance. We even brought refreshments.

That was how it all happened.

That was how it all started.

We were murders, killers—we loved it, we thrived on it, we thirsted for it.

"It is foolish to think that by fleeing one can trick the dread god of death. Let us treat him as a beneficent angel rather than a dread god. We must face and welcome him whenever he comes."—Mohandas Gandhi

A/N: This is a collaboration between six fan fiction authors (see profile). We'd like to thank you all for reading the Prologue. We promise a twisted love story that you'll love to hate! The whole of the story will be in Edward's POV, though the Prologue was in Alice's to establish the background. We beg you to review--we'd love to hear what you think of our new story!

Disclaimer: All publicly recognizable characters, settings, etc. are the property of Stephenie Meyer. DevilishPleasures is in no way associated with the owners, creators, or producers of the Twilight Saga. No copyright infringement is intended.

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